


a couple of rounds going down like water

by fruitlouis



Category: Larry Stylinson - Fandom, One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:10:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitlouis/pseuds/fruitlouis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>louis is lonely and likes chunky peanut butter and alcohol, zayn and liam are in a cutesy relationship, niall is a bartender that may or may not dress up as a leprechaun, and harry wears jeggings</p>
            </blockquote>





	a couple of rounds going down like water

**Author's Note:**

> in a nutshell, this is a result of me being overtired and wanting to write and having a craving for chunky peanut butter so i pologize for any grammar/punctuation errors and other generally shitty bits of writing because this is totally unedited and mostly written at one am. the title’s from all night longer by sammy adams and it’s a total frat boy song that I found when I was trying to write frat boy niall (never again) i guess enjoy? feedback would be lovely. also this was supposed to be 3k but i got lazy so it's only 1.5k oops

Louis likes vodka sodas a lot. Like a lot a lot. They’re probably his favorite food, that is, after chunky peanut butter. The chunks make everything better; smooth peanut butter is too boring and leaves nothing to imagination. Maybe he could find a chunky peanut butter flavored vodka. However, Louis decides this is doubtful and such a fact makes him sad. Louis hates sadness, and he especially loathes the way it envelops a person like a sticky sheet of molasses and keeps them trapped, not allowing a ray of hopefulness or happiness to break through the barrier. Sometimes, Louis thinks, sadness can be good, for it can tie you to reality. But the kind of melancholy that courses through his fragile veins each day isn’t the good kind, and Louis knows this. He still doesn’t take his medications though, because what’s the point of living if you can’t appreciate the way sun warms a room in the morning or the sharp scent in the air during the winter? What’s the point of numbing yourself so nothing can break through the shell of Celexa, Zoloft, and all the other pills Louis swallows each day?

Sighing, Louis downs the rest of his soda in a greedy gulp, letting the toxins travel throughout his system. However, the bland taste of the dirt-cheap vodka is weighing down his tongue, and Louis decides it’s time for a change. He’s craving something strong but not too sickening, unlike those fruity drinks he tried last Friday. Tequila it is, then. His feet sliding across the slick floor, Louis maneuvers carefully around the dancing throng of people who seem to be radiating youth and elation, he doesn’t want to infect any of them with his despondency. He’s not bright and shiny like the people dancing around him, but rather dark and twisty. Being excessively happy all the time was never in the cards for Louis. Before, Louis didn’t think he could spread his sadness with a simple touch, but now he knows better. Whenever someone glances at his stringy hair or dull eyes, which hardly ever happens, their concern is obvious. Louis doesn’t want to a burden, he shouldn’t be a burden. So he locks it all inside, buried deep in the niche in his chest that never seems to fill, not after Nick. Nick, with his fucking quiff that was at least four inches tall, Nick, with his stupid jokes and remarks that had no point or purpose other than to make Louis chuckle. Nick, with his lips and teeth that left purple mementos scattered on Louis’s torso. Nick, who shattered Louis’ heart into tiny fragments; the kind that become dust when they’re touched. 

There are people brushing against his skin and lights so bright they could be the sun boring into his eyes, and Louis is miserable. The bass beat of whatever dubstep remix the DJ is blaring is reverberating inside the walls of the club, and it’s scrambling all Louis’ thoughts. Whatever. It’s not like they were high quality thoughts anyway. If they were, Louis’ editor would have called with the good news that his manuscript was being published, not the dismal news that for the seventh time, it was rejected. Louis sighs because not everyone can be John fucking Green. It’s not Louis’ fault that he’s walking travesty, or whatever. He really should know the full quote because he was an English major, but whatever. Also, Louis has decided that whatever is his all-time favorite word because, well, whatever. It can be used in almost any situation and ninety nine point nine nine nine percent of the time; no one questions its use. 

People question his use of alcohol though, and his mum has even put Liam and Zayn on his case to monitor his booze intake, or whatever she likes to call it. Whenever they’re feeling especially lovey-dovey or cutesy, which is always, Louis could sneak a baby piglet past them. Not that he’s tried that, of course. Louis loves the slight burn on the back of his throat as he swallows down hard liquor; he loves the identical set of shivers that race along his spine after downing shot after shot, eventually fading the world into nothingness. He’s one of the few that doesn’t mind waking up slumped over a toilet, clothes smelling like vomit. Louis doesn’t mind being so hammered that he can’t recall his own address or middle name, and he most definitely doesn’t mind being so drunk that he can’t recall any detail of his prior relationship. The nights when his memory is like a clean slate, blank and peaceful, are by far the best. 

And all of the sudden, Louis is jerked from his thoughts and back into reality by a sharp shove, knocking him to the grime covered floor. After the initial shock, he realizes that it’s surprisingly comfortable, lying on the somewhat sketchy club floor. Aside from the feet shuffling dangerously close to his temples, it’s rather nice. He can feel the music vibrating the ground, thus shaking his body, but it’s a good shake. It pulses in time with his heart, and Louis lets himself truly breathe for the first time in what feels like years. For some unknown reason, the floor is safe. Safe from prying eyes and questioning lips, safe from sharp glances and wrinkled foreheads. A knot that had made a home between Louis’ shoulder blades is finally untangling when a set of foreign hands wrap around his wrists, pulling him off the floor effortlessly.

“You alright?” a deep voice rumbles, directing itself down a Louis.

Louis looks up, and Jesus fucking Christ. 

“Uh, I’m fine,” he replies, voice a bit shaky. Louis’ mouth has suddenly turned into the Sahara Desert because there is a tall beautiful human dressed in what are probably jeggings standing in front of him, a tiny crease between his thick eyebrows. And his hair, oh good god. It’s a tangled mess of curls held back by a fading bandanna that Louis wouldn’t mind being tied up with. Oh. Kinky thoughts. Those need to go. Kinky thoughts are not his friend, Louis reminds himself, as he scans the stranger’s body again. The last time he had kinky thoughts about a seemingly lovely stranger in a bar, he woke up with a boyfriend, which was nice. But seven months later when Louis woke up to cold sheets and a torn piece of paper stating “I just can’t do it anymore, sorry Lou” wasn’t all that nice.

Someone is carefully squeezing his wrist, like they’re afraid he’ll shatter in their hands, and there’s a bored looking bartender staring expectantly at Louis. Oh. The bar. Right. He wanted tequila. 

“A screwdriver please, and make it strong.” 

The bartender nods like he knows exactly what’s running through Louis’ head, and truth be told, be probably knows more than the common person just based on his job. He’s like a non-certified therapist. With an Irish accent. Louis wonders if the bartender ever wears a leprechaun costume for fun. He thinks the answer is probably yes, and giggles in spite of himself. 

There’s a light chuckle behind him, so Louis whirls around on his barstool. The boy is still there and still looks quite delicious, if Louis is being totally honest. Before he thinks better of it, Louis blurts out a question that had been streaming across his mind ever since the leprechaun thoughts. So for about five seconds.  
“What are your opinions on both crunchy and smooth peanut butter, and which do you prefer?

Eyebrows still furrowed, the stranger begins his answer in a voice that feels like the last drops of honey dripping from the bottle. 

“I suppose crunchy peanut butter has chunks and stuff? Like little bits of peanuts? And smooth is just plain peanut butter without the chunks?”

Louis nods, motioning for him to continue.

“Erhm, I guess I prefer smooth? The chunks get in the way and add too much texture,” the stranger adds, cluelessly going against Louis’ own, very valued opinion. 

In response his comment, Louis huffs, undone at the stranger’s selection. Everyone, or at least most everyone, knows that crunchy is better. 

Taking notice of Louis’ miffed expression, the boy stammers out what shouldn’t be an apology or an invitation, but is both anyway.

“Oh shit, sorry mate. Didn’t mean to offend your peanut butter tastes, or whatever. If it means that much to you, I could switch, I guess?”

At this, a small smile turns up Louis lips because here is a perfect, beautiful stranger offering to change just for the sake of his happiness. Over peanut butter. Peanut fucking butter, made from vegetable oil and peanuts, providing a daily dosage of vitamin E to whoever consumes it. 

Against his better judgment, Louis extends one hand, offering his name. “Louis, Louis Tomlinson.”

Smooth peanut butter boy smiles, then extends his own. “I’m Harry, Harry Styles.”

And for once in his life, Louis thinks that smooth peanut butter might just be okay.


End file.
